Childhood Innocence
by dreamlesswinter
Summary: Kyle gets raped and abused by his dad and his mom doesnt do anything about it. then he tries to kill himself. can his friends save him in time? Kyman.


**Childhood Innocence **

Dying. That's what I felt like. I felt like I was dying. This had been the worst beating all week. But that was nothing new. Every day. Every night. He's there. Waiting to tear me apart.

The sad thing is that I let him. The sadder thing is that they let him. I don't blame Ike. He is only ten years old. But what is mom's excuse. Why is it that ever time dad raises his fist to me, mom turns away. She knows everything but doesn't do anything to help me. If she could she would let me drown in a world of pain. And she does.

It's the little things that I miss the most. The things that didn't seem important before. The things that I will never get back. I'll never be happy, or carefree, or innocent again. He took that away from me. Now I have nothing.

I want to kill. Kill him. Kill them. Kill me.

Everyone.

Words that describe my life:

Bitter. Rotten. Horrible. Ugly. Stupid. Lonely. Painful. Wrong.

That's all I will ever have.

…

…

The soft thumping of feet on the stairs brought me back to where I was, lying face down on the floor in the living room. Blood leaked from my new wounds and ran slowly over my bruised and broken body.

Ike looked at me with worry etched all over his face. "What are you doing?" he asked quietly.

"Thinking," I whispered.

"About what?"

"About what book I should read next," I said sarcastically. I know I should be kinder to Ike, but it's hard when I'm the only one in pain.

"Really?" he asked.

"No, not really." I spat. After a moment I sighed, all of my anger leaving my tired body. "I'm thinking about how much I hate my life."

Ike stood awkwardly at the foot of the stairs. "Oh," he whispered. "Do you need help getting back to bed?"

Yes. Please help me. Call the cops. And the hospital. I can't stand up. "No." I said, not having the heart to look Ike in the eyes. In reality I really did need his help. But I couldn't do that to Ike. I was just thankful that dad never beat him. But I was also jealous.

"I'm sorry." Ike said after a long pause.

Slowly and painfully I sat up slightly. Looking him in the eyes I asked, "For what?"

"For everything," he whispered, barely audible.

"It's not your fault, Ike. Go back to bed." I told him.

"Goodnight, Kyle."

"Goodnight, Ike."

…

…

When I woke up I found myself lying in my bed. Some how I managed to drag my hurting body upstairs last night.

I thoroughly ran my hands over my bruised body, searching for any broken bones. It was impossible to tell if something was broken because it felt like everything was broken. Feet, ankles, legs, knees, thighs, hips, hands, wrists, arms, elbows, shoulders, collar, skull, jaw, teeth. When I got to my ribs I stopped. The third one on the left made me cry out in agony. I looked down and saw that it was slightly raised. Fuck. It was broken.

Carefully I crawled out of bed and got dressed for school. School. Shit. I'd rather be anywhere then there. What if someone notices something is wrong? This has been happening for over six months. But I still worry everyday.

When I got to the bus stop Stan and Kenny were already there waiting. Stan turned to me and recoiled.

"Dude, what happened to you?" Stan asked me with shock written all over his face.

I decided to play naive. "What do you mean? I'm fine."

"Kyle, you're covered in bruises! You are not fine." Kenny argued.

"I just fell off my skate board the other day. No big deal. I'm fine. Everything is fine."

"Well, okay. Just be more careful." Stan said uncertainly.

"What are you my mom?"

"Whatever, dude. Hey, do you still have the notes from class yesterday. I forgot to study last night."

"Sure, here." I said as I fished out notes from my backpack.

"Hey, fags. Hey, Jew." Oh, great. Cartman is here.

"Hey, fat-ass." I say as he comes over to stand next to me.

"What happened to your face?" he asks. If I didn't know him better I would have sworn I heard a hint of concern in his voice. He stares intently at my busted lip, black eye, and purple bruise the size of Jupiter on my right cheek.

"I fell."

"Oh, really? Did you fall into a fist a dozen times." Guess I was wrong. He doesn't care about me. Not that it matters. He could never love me the way I love him.

"Fuckoff, fat-ass!" I shout angrily.

"Whatever." Cartman scoffs. "You need to get that sand out of your vagina, Jew-boy."

"Fuckoff, Cartman." Stan comes up to defend me. "Kyle doesn't need this right now."

"Standing up for your boyfriend, huh Marsh?" Eric smirks because he knows I'm gay.

"Whatever, dude. You know that's not true." Stan says just as the school bus pulls up.

As I got on the bus all I could think was how much my heart hurt. I truly loved Eric. But he hurts me. It's hard to love someone who will only cause you pain. But that hint of concern in his voice still lingers with me. Maybe he can love me.

…

…

It was Thursday morning. First period. English class. Mr. Moss was handing out today's assignment while I was trying to stay awake. Why does dad always have to beat me at night? I can never fall asleep after. But in the morning would be even worse. I'd have to spend the whole day with fresh wounds. There really is no good time to be in pain.

"Okay, class. If you turn to page sixteen in your text books you will see that we are starting our poetry unit today. Your assignment will be to write one poem a day for the next two weeks. Now I'm passing out composition journals for you to write in and extra credit points will be given to anyone who does more than the required amount. Are there any questions?" Mr. Moss said.

I think Butters said something but I was too distracted to notice. My rib was aching really badly. It hurt so fucking much. I should have taken some aspirin this morning.

Suddenly a journal is thrown in front of me. I pick it up and look around. On the black board I see the words _poetry journal_. Looking down I open to the first page and begin to write.


End file.
